Sir Taggart insists that it was. The Rooney Monster says it was the best goal of his career.

So who am I to argue then? It was, in truth, a wonder goal. A moment of sheer blinding brilliance which will be talked about and replayed for years to come.

I wonder what Rooney felt when that spectacular overhead kick zoomed past Joe Hart like a tracer bullet.

My guess is that he felt relief rather than elation. Relief that his God-given talent hadn’t deserted him for good. Relief that he could still score goals which lesser players can only dream about.

I’m also guessing that in a quiet moment on Saturday night Rooney wished that he had scored a goal like that wearing the blue shirt of Everton against Liverpool.

Because we all know that deep down Rooney is an Evertonian. And can anything be better than scoring a wonder goal against your genuine derby rivals – in his case Liverpool?

You see, the disappointment for me is not that the Blessed Blues were beaten by the Reds on Saturday.

The disappointment for me is that from a playing perspective a Manchester derby these days has very little to do with Manchester and its surrounds.

How many of those players on both sides who walked out of the tunnel at Old Trafford at lunchtime on Saturday were born or raised in the Greater Manchester area?

The answer is two – and both were wearing red shirts.

The first is Ryan Giggs who was born in Cardiff but brought up in Salford. The other is Paul Scholes who was born in Salford but brought up in Langley, North Manchester.

I thought there was a third in Micah Richards until I discovered that the City full-back was actually born in Birmingham and raised in Leeds.

So just two local lads among the 22 players who started Saturday’s match. Can that be described as a Manchester derby? For the fans, absolutely yes. For the vast majority of those players, absolutely no. Just another game like any other.

Saturday’s encounter saddened me because I’m old enough to remember when a Manchester derby was exactly what it said on the label.

Fans of my generation can still picture Nobby Stiles (Moston) dumping Neil Young (Fallowfield) into the third row of the main stand.

We can still wince at the memory of Mike Doyle (Reddish) and Brian Kidd (Collyhurst) kicking seven bells out of each other.

Because back then in the sixties and early seventies that was what Manchester derbies were like. Local lad against local lad fighting for pride as much as points.

In the run-up to Saturday’s derby Giggs said that if his team lost to the Blues he would lock himself away in his house for the next week.

Ryan, of course, was joking. But in the sixties and seventies that’s exactly what the losing players in a Manchester derby would do.

They would go into hiding for a week. They would steer clear of their local pub or favourite restaurant for fear of running into fans who still hadn’t swallowed the disappointment of a derby defeat.

Do you think that Carlos Tevez imprisoned himself in his own house over the weekend?

Had his team lost would Dimitar Berbatov have gone straight to bed on Saturday evening, vowing to remain there for the next seven days?

Of course not. And why should they? Tevez is Argentinian. Berbatov is Bulgarian. How can they have the same feeling for a Manchester derby that a home-grown player would?

I suppose it’s just a sign of the times and I’m a grumpy old dinosaur who is still living in the past.

But I’m proud of the fact that when the Blues won the First Division title in 1968 every single member of that team was born and bred in England.

That’s never going to happen again, is it? And Manchester derbies will never again be jam-packed with players born or raised in this city. I’ve got to accept it. But nobody will ever make me embrace it.